


Respect was invented to cover the empty place where love should be.

by ijustlookatpictures



Category: Little Women (2019), Little Women Series - Louisa May Alcott
Genre: Emotional Hurt, F/M, Guilt, Heartbreak, Pining, Realisation, Referenced Sex, Referenced alcohol and drug abuse, Referenced prostitution, Self Confidence Issues, Self Respect, start of feelings, turning point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26261209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijustlookatpictures/pseuds/ijustlookatpictures
Summary: For Amy's outburst at the ball had been the start of it all, he realised.
Relationships: Theodore Laurence & Amy March, Theodore Laurence/Amy March, Theodore Laurence/Josephine March (mentioned)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 131





	Respect was invented to cover the empty place where love should be.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm head over heels for these two at the minute!
> 
> Also, when you think about it, Poor Laurie had had a horrendous life... it's no surprise he fell off the rails a bit! Luckily he had Amy to drag him back to reality.
> 
> Hover for translations.

The sickeningly sweet stench of the Opium den was still clinging odiously to Laurie's clothing as he staggered heavily towards his bed, gratefully collapsing onto his back and staring imploringly above him towards the swirls on the ceiling. Yearning for the world around him to stop spinning.

It was nauseating. The way the room stretched and contorted around him like a Kaleidoscope, lights and shapes dancing alluringly before his eyes as he drifted in and out of reality. Snippets of laughter and conversation ebbing from the bustling Rue de Rivoli beneath his apartment making paranoia and anxiety itch achingly across his skin.

Letting out a low whine of anguish, his eye was caught by the familiar glinting of silver to his left. A hazy smile pulled across his features as he raised his hand above his head, gazing intently at the ornate jewellery he wore on his ring finger.

A tacky piece. Made of cheaply pressed metal and not much else. Yet to Laurie, the worthless ring sat upon his hand was his most priceless possession. A jewel unlike no other, holding a sentimentality that was simply irreplaceable. 

'Hai bisogno dell'acqua?'  A voice asked him.

He rolled his head, making out the figure at the foot of his bed stripping her way out of her evening dress. A mess of lace and silk falling delicately against the carpeted floor of his bedroom.

'Chi?' He mumbled, his brow twitching in confusion as he attempted to process the words.

'Water!' Came the irritated reply. 'I said do you need water?'

Laurie chuckled, absently. Grimacing and twisting his jaw as he battled against the unfamiliarity of feeling as though he possessed another man's teeth. He always hated the feeling of opiates, in the aftermath.

'No.' He managed, several moments later, casting his eyes back towards the ring.

His skin was stained beneath it, he realised. A green-tinge mottling against his pale knuckle that matched the faded copper colouring of the engraved train within the signet. He studied the lettering intently as though it held some untold secret to the rectification of his trauma. As though he hadn't sat and scrutinised the same ring every day for the past two years since having had his heart broken.

He squinted at the word, allowing his mouth to mime the shape of it. _QUICK._

She had certainly been quick to spurn his advances, he mused.

Quick to trample against his yearning heart. Quick to see him thrown to the gutter as though he was worthless, as though he had meant nothing to her. Leaving him so lost; leaving him floundering... humiliated and ashamed and lonely. _Lovesick_. He ached with it.

Laurie sank his eyes shut, picturing the ring as it sat against her delicate hand. Remembering how the breeze rippling across the gravel driveway of his Grandfather's estate had ruffled against her curls as she beamed up at him. Remembering the smell of the air, the sound of mindless chatter in the background. How the world had paused for a moment, just for the two of them. As she crouched beneath him on one knee, holding out the ring towards him, as a proclamation of love and adoration. At least, it was upon those terms that he had accepted it.

'Are you going to be sick?' The voice pressed again and he growled furiously, torn from his heavy thoughts as he glared back towards the woman at the foot of his bed.

'I said - NO!' He objected, irritably. 'Stop _asking me_ , woman!'

'No, you said you didn't want water.' 

He licked his lips, sucking air through his teeth as he tried to quell the nausea biting against his stomach. The pleasurable effects of the Opium rapidly ebbing from his system, leaving only sickness and irritation in its wake.

'Well, I'm not.' He added, resting a heavy hand over his aching eyes. He watched the inside of his lids intently, as bright spots and patterns began to thread through the darkness. Casting a little pleasant effect to his otherwise odious being.

Where was she now? He thought, bitterly.

Writing, most definitely. Perhaps tucked up in her boarding house as she scribbled away with the battered fountain pen she had always revered so. He wondered, perhaps, if she still had the fountain pen he had bought her on her eighteenth birthday.

Whether it was still tucked away in her top drawer in the ornate box he had paid extra for, her initials inscribed carefully upon the silver casing. If she looked at it so infrequently that the powder blue ribbon that he had delicately tied over the box was still the same knot from almost four years ago.

_'Teddy, I adore it!' She had proclaimed, throwing her arms around him euphorically. 'This is so special that I **must** save it!'_

_She engulfed him in one of her bone breaking embraces, clutching her precious gift so dearly. The embrace that he yearned for with every ounce of his being, that gave him purpose from the tips of his fingers to the air in his lungs. Yet she remained so ignorant; so blind._

_'It shall be old faithful who will get me to the printers, but the day I get published I shall upgrade to this beauty and I shall write with it for the rest of my days!'_

He snorted, derisively. She would most likely have sold it, carelessly tossed it away like she had done his heart.

'Who was she?'

He felt a tugging at his boots. After a moment of confusion, he lifted his head marginally from the bed to see the woman now at his feet tugging at his laces to pull his patent dress shoes from his feet. Laboriously, he dragged his right arm beneath him, resting the base of his throbbing skull against it. Grateful to find the position did a little to alleviate his sickness.

'Who?' He asked, struggling to raise his ringed hand towards her hair, affectionately running his fingers through the dark tendrils. 

'That awful, nagging Miss Ann from the ball.' She answered, leaning to kiss his palm.

Laurie smirked, withdrawing his hand. 'She's... a friend...' He mumbled, the air thickening against his egregious body with each breath. 'I... grew up with her...'

He paused. 

Indeed, he had grown up with a young girl named Amy March, awkward, bumbling and pugnacious, as she was. Armed with a biting tongue and an outrageously witty sense of humour. He remembered how tears would run stream from his eyes as she told one of her anecdotes, growing ever more outraged during her diatribe. He would find himself having frequently pulled a stomach muscle during one of their conversations, during which she had not intended to be funny yet had made his split his sides at the hilarity of her.

Yet, that girl was nowhere to be seen in the woman he had been reunited with the day before. She had been poised with such beauty and finesse, so breathtaking that, not only had he not recognised her at first, but for a moment, he had been unable to put together a cohesive sentence at the sight of her. So taken aback at her transformation, as he had been.

'Then again...it was her that... grew up with me.' He added, thoughtfully, fumbling for the golden cigarette case in his top pocket.

The head at his feet joined him on the bed, scantily clad in her chemise and underskirt as she alleviated him from his struggling. Taking the case from his trembling fingers and passing him a cigarette, before igniting it.

He grunted in acknowledgement, winking at her affectionately as he focussed the stream of smoke back towards the ceiling.

'Were you close?' She pressed, lying back beside him with her own cigarette, reaching to interlace their fingers together.

Absently, he grazed his thumb over the back of her olive-skinned knuckles as he pondered the notion for a moment.

'I was closer with her sister.' He surmised, guardedly, frowning at the way he seemed unable to shake Amy's face from his mind.

He glanced towards his bedmate, her petite features illuminated by the low glow of the gas lamp at his bedside. She truly was beautiful Lucille San Carlo, yet never once had he found himself taken aback by her. Not the way he had been with Amy.

He had met her in a bakery of all places. Tussardi's; the only Italian delicatessen in the whole of Paris. He had been in line for a box of Cannoli Siciliani, she a single Carteddate. 

Lucille was unlike anyone he had ever met; either in Europe or America. The only woman he knew to be considered a lady, yet who sauntered about the city sans chaperone, exhibiting behaviour that was entirely unbecoming of a young lady such as she. 

They shared a lot in common, he had discovered. 

She was an American, like he was. Her Mother had been Italian, like his was. She had been orphaned at the age of nine, like he was. Her childhood had been spent in different boarding schools across the continent, like his was.

Yet, what had drawn him to her had been the fact that she spoke the same dialect of Italian he did - old country. He found it comforting; nostalgic almost. It reminded him of his Mother; as grotesque as that may have been. Additionally, she was the most excellent bedfellow he had found since travelling across Europe. At least, one he did not have to pay for.

However, Laurie had since discovered the similarities between the pair ended there.

Yet, whenever he found himself at his lowest, it was always Lucille who seemed to appear at his aid. She took away his loneliness, if only for a while. Lessened the burning ache which weighed heavily against his chest and the itchiness that adorned his skin.

One thing that Lucille always seemed to accompany was trouble.

He had arrived in the foyer earlier that evening in plenty of time to meet Amy at her hotel. Adorned in his best suit (as promised) when he had spotted the olive-skinned temptress waiting for him in the seating area. For an unbeknownst reason, he was helpless to her affections.

After that, Amy March had been entirely forgotten. In favour of an overpriced bottle of champagne and a quick fumble in the back of a cab beneath the veil of darkness on their way to their first party.

Bumping into her had been nothing more than a happy accident. For Laurie had been so inebriated on snuff and alcohol that he had not even realised the party, in which he was in attendance, was the same one they had talked of the previous afternoon.

'She seems a whorish pig by any means.' Lucille surmised, bemusedly, raising their intertwined hands above them towards the ceiling. 'Nasty little nose.'

Despite his heavy intoxication, Laurie frowned, the words settling like bile in his stomach, anger instantly igniting throughout him. He pulled his hand away, glaring at the ceiling reproachfully. 

'Don't... don't... say that.' He admonished, pinching the bridge of his nose, disagreeably. _He felt sick._

A light laugh rang out around his bedroom and he felt the mattress dip beside him as Lucille arose. The noise serving to only irritate him further.

'Hey!' He snapped, watching as she crossed the room towards the vanity beside his window. 'I... I said don't talk like... don't talk like that... about her... she's... she's a nice girl.'

She smirked. 'Touched a nerve have I, Teddy?' She asked, cocking an eyebrow at him in the mirror.

Petulantly, he rolled over in bed so he didn't have to face her, gripping his linen pillow angrily, oblivious to the copious amount of ash he dropped, in the process.

'Don't talk about her like that.' He managed more cohesively, the words tumbling into the fabric beneath him as he sank his eyes shut.

An unfamiliar churning settled in his stomach, unlike anything he was used to. A feeling completely more painful to the self-induced poisoning, to which he was used. 

For no matter how much he tried to force the image away, he could not shake the vision of the stunning Amy March in her glorious dark ball gown waiting vainly for him in the foyer of the Grand.

_'I waited an hour for you.'_

He scratched his nose, raising the cigarette back to his lips pensively, wincing as a little tobacco ash fell against his hand. 

An hour was an awfully long time to wait, for a woman as beautiful and charismatic as she, he thought. Especially for a man like him. 

Instantly, the agony of her reproach returned, causing him to draw his knees to his chest. Pitifully curling in a ball, as though to lessen the feelings of embarrassment and regret he was held over their interaction.

There had been no anger, no expression of disappointment, or chastisement of his transgression, to begin with. No, the statement had been so factual in its delivery, that it had taken his breath away.

For the Amy March he had known would have stormed towards him, tossed the drink from his hand and callously kicked him in the shin.

Yet it appeared he no longer knew the baby sister of his childhood best friend, outwardly, at least. For to the room, she had appeared the perfect lady. All anger successfully suppressed to the pit of her stomach as she maintained the facade of ambivalence. The standard armour that all respectable women of society endeavoured to achieve. 

In fact, if he had not caught the way her eyes stared mutely at him before she had uttered the smallest _hmm,_ he would have believed her to be no more affected by his absence than minorly aggrieved.

No, he may no longer have known Amy March. Yet for some inexplicable reason, it appeared he knew her eyes.

For he most certainly understood the way she was gazing at him; as though he were a stranger. As though his loutish, ungentlemanly behaviour were falling short of some expectation she held of him. As though she had finally realised he was no longer the boy she had known from her childhood. As though that somehow disappointed her.

He had felt physically winded at the way she had turned away from him, like someone had struck him in the stomach.

Laurie cringed at the way he had automatically tumbled after her, desperate to uphold whatever boyhood charms she appeared to remember him possessing.

He had successfully misdirected her sister about his affections for the best part of half a decade, so considered himself well-versed in the art of lying to the Marches enough to placate Little Amy. No matter how much she had grown.

However, it appeared he was wrong about that, too. For she had persisted to walk away, unshaken by both the presence of him and the silver tongue that used to be able to draw her from her blackest of rages.

It had been enough to momentarily sober him the way the statement had so easily slipped from her lips. 

_'I despise you.'_

A sickening crawl of nausea up his back, that he was sure would have rendered him ice cold to the touch. For that made two Marches who did not love him, anymore. He didn't understand. He had upset her, surely, yet not so where she had tossed aside all of the affection which she had so obviously still held for him the previous afternoon.

Amidst her lessons in decorum from Aunt March, it so too appeared that Amy had acquired the adulthood skill of no longer wearing one's heart on one's sleeve. That was disheartening, he found. For she had always done that so beautifully.

_'Why do you despise me?'_

He couldn't help but sound wounded. Thee words catching at the back of his throat as he uttered them. For some strange reason, his hand itched, wanting to reach for hers. Because she was still walking away from him and he didn't like the fact she was walking away from him.

Jo had walked away from him. 

Yet his warmth had returned as her diatribe suddenly commenced. Falling from her viciously with the biting tongue he remembered so well. With the biting tongue, he had later realised he had yearned for. Anything, any kind of admonishment.

Just a sign of Amy.

His relief had been momentary. For the words he would have expected her to spit at him should have been along the lines of: ' _You vicious, horrible boy. You have hurt my feelings and I detest you. I will not forgive you until apologise on your knees and take me skating.'_

He could not have been further wrong. The way her tongue lashed out with such vitriol was like a dozen paper cuts mottling his skin. Minute wounds that proved agonising, no matter how inconsequential she may have found them to speak. Yet the aspect he found most disagreeable? They mirrored the statements his Grandfather so angrily threw at him.

_'Because with every chance of being good, happy and useful - you are lazy, faulty and miserable.'_

He let out a little coo of surprise and a mumble of something derisive, in response. Doing his absolute utmost to hide the way her words cut into him like a knife. For it seemed everyone he cared for found him to be of substandard quality to the Theodore Laurence they expected him to be. A substandard quality to the Theodore Laurence they wanted him to be.

_'Well, selfish people do like to talk about themselves.'_

Hurt began to twitch into some more egregious facet within Laurie's gut. For there was that word again. _Selfish, selfish, selfish, selfish._

_'Yes! Very selfish!'_

And on she went, listing fault after fault after fault. He sniffed, glancing over his shoulder to where Lucille and one of her very nice lady friend's were waiting for him, suddenly wishing he had not bothered to follow her. 

Yet she had glanced at him. Briefly. Wearing that same look of disappointment in her eye that reminded him that Little Amy still remained within her... somewhere. He lunged for her. Why he had thought that was a good idea? He had no clue. Then again, gin did bizarre things to a man.

He spouted something, some nonsense. Some falsified declaration that would not have gone amiss in their little attic theatre group.

She had stared at him then, eyes ablaze with a passion he remembered. Yet a hurt he was unfamiliar with. A hurt that he did not remember existing within the eyes of Little Amy March. 

In that moment, Laurie so desperately wished that she had remained turned away.

_'That ring is ridiculous!'_

That had been the beginning of the end. The vitriol to his work ethic, his commitments, whatever slur she could throw his way didn't really cut so deeply - he had heard them all before, after all. No, the comment on the ring had been a step too far. 

He eyed it, woundedly. Making out the green mottling on his finger and the tinged train and the emboldened _QUICK._

 _'Jo gave me this ring.'_ He answered, quietly. _God, had he really sounded as pitiful as he felt he did?_

Yes, he clearly had. For she had turned then, taking a step or two towards him, concern briefly passing over her face before it was replaced. _With pity._

Laurie despised pity. 

_'I feel sorry for you, I really do.'_

Anger twitched within him. She was a child... What in God's name did she know about the world?

Little Amy March who had aspirations of being a renowned painter and owning roomfuls of pretty things, whilst being prepared to simply lie on her back in exchange for them.

Laurie's eyes shot open, nausea suddenly heaving from his throat. He flew up, just in time to wretch heavily, covering both himself and the bed-linen in alcohol-infused vomit.

'For God's sake Teddy, you lout!' Came Lucille's aggrieved cry as he wretched once, twice more.

Aghast, he ignored her, covering his mouth with his shirt sleeve and stumbling in the direction of the bathroom adjoining his bedroom. 

Barely reaching the toilet in time, he heaved again and again against the boil, until his stomach griped achingly in response to his heavy vomiting. Instantly, he welcomed the reprieve, the agonising band of nausea by which he had been gripped lifting slightly as he began to see with a little more clarity. The effects of the drugs and alcohol slowing beginning to elevate from his senses.

He let out a bark of revulsion, reaching for the pull chain collapsing heavily against the tiled floor as he wiped tears of exertion form his eyes.

_'I would be respected if I couldn't be loved.'_

Laurie drew his knees to his chest, wincing more at the impact of the statement now that they weren't accompanied by the entire apartment spinning. He eyed his ring protectively, twisting it desperately around his finger as he rested his cheek against the porcelain bathtub, ignoring the way Lucille was angrily speaking down the telephone receiver to the night staff downstairs, ordering fresh bedlinen.

_'I would be respected if I couldn't be loved.'_

_'I would be respected if I couldn't be loved.'_

_'I would be respected if I couldn't be loved.'_

It was a bizarre notion. Respect. Especially in the eyes of Theodore Laurence. 

For Laurie could never remember a time where he could wholeheartedly recall himself having been respected.

He hadn't been at school. Cries of Dora echoing after him, ink spilt over his belongings and water poured into his sheets before lights out. Shouts of derision after him still echoed in his mind; _'Here comes the WOP!' 'Can the Eye-Tie even hold cutlery?' 'Dora, does it make you sad to eat a meal without spaghetti?'_

Perhaps it had transcended from there. For he had learnt from a very young age that respect was a purposeless notion when one possessed enough money. For money equalled power and he had lots of money, ergo lots of power.

Laurie had been born of power.

A photograph of a naked woman purchased from one of the upper-schoolman for more money than most of his peers spent in a term, that he had subsequently shared around the boys in his dorm. A healthy helping of chocolate his Grandfather had sent him shared with friends in his immediate circle. Suddenly, his classmates had been falling over themselves to become friends with him.

Yes, anything could be bought for a price. He had not had respect, but he had had things they had wanted, so they treated him with the airs and graces one would a gentleman he did respect.

Respect had simply just grown more expensive as he had grown older.

A generous round of drinks to a group of acquaintances in a new bar. An exquisite box of cigars shared amongst the smoking-room, after hours. An invitation to a pair of girlfriends to join him in his private gallery at the opera.

Lucille, in the next room ordering him fresh bed linen, having accompanied him across the city for the best part of twelve hours, having eagerly lifted her skirts for him twice thus far, this evening and undoubtedly prepared to do it again. That. That was born of money and power. So who cared about respect?

Amy.

He glanced back down at his ring. Jo's devastated face, furious at the notion he would wish to discuss any future, horrified at the prospect of loving him, disappointed at his tales of losing tens of dollars at Billiards and sneaking into bars when he and the other boys clambered from the dorms on a Friday night.

_'I would be respected if I couldn't be loved.'_

Yet as he sank his eyes closed, it wasn't Jo's familiar face glaring back. It was Amy's.

For the life of him, he could not rid himself of the look of humiliation that had adorned her face as he took his own turn to chastise her. Short, sharp biting words of derision that cut her to the core. She had had the decorum of keeping their squabble between themselves, whilst he had extended her no such courtesy.

What was worse was that he had enjoyed it. Amy, who had allowed him into her immediate circle, sharing her precious sketches and paintings despite having been so terrified of criticism. He had indulged her growing up, emphatically proclaiming how talented she was and it was the truth. He had always found her art breathtaking. 

Yet Laurie had wanted to aim for her jugular and he had spent enough time during their childhood watching Jo successfully reach it. Thus, he had known exactly how to follow suit.

But that hadn't been enough. For, though he had not realised until that moment, but the thought of a girl like Amy March on the arm of a boring bastard like Fred Vaughn had repulsed him. Not that he had admitted as such; just found it easier to publicly mortify her.

As she had done him.

_'FRED VAUGHN, LADIES AND GENTLEMAN!'_

He shouted the statement so loudly that his throat had grown horse. He'd tossed a drink for good measure, too, the sticky liquid drenching himself and several ladies around him before storming his way across the dance floor.

He hadn't had the stomach to turn back and face her.

_'I would be respected if I couldn't be loved.'_

Grabbing Lucille, he had fled. Fled from Amy March and her gazes of disappointment, her words of resentment and her piteous touches. 

_'I would be respected if I couldn't be loved.'_

Laurie scrubbed at his cheeks, stubble heavy beneath his fingertips.

Why did she care so desperately over whether or not he was respected? It wasn't like he cared.

It wasn't like he cared. 

That was the crux of it, perhaps. Laurie never one recalled a time he had extended himself the courtesy of self-respect. It wasn't a notion he was familiar with. For his Mother was Italian, his parents had been unmarried at his conception, his paternal family had wanted nothing to do with him until his parent's demise and he didn't recall a time he had ever felt overly liked.

So if no one around him respected him, what was there of himself to respect? 

At that moment, it felt like something within him clicked.

The scream of his name and a sudden flash of peacock, then Amy had been upon him. Arms flying against him and a bone-breaking hug gripping him fiercely. Almost as though she had been terrified he may disappear, amidst her genuine delight at the sight of him. Her hopeful desperation for his presence at a party, wanting so desperately to spend time with him. Not for the money in his wallet or the connections he may bring.

It was a chilling realisation. One which crept across his limbs, like spreading ice throughout his body, crippling chill blains seemingly rendering him utterly immobile. 

Amy had respected him.

Amy had respected him and he had thrown it to the wayside for a woman who wouldn't look twice at him in the street if he didn't lavish her in francs.

On cue, the bathroom door snapped and Lucille appeared, shutting them both in the small room.

'Stai bene?' She asked, now more acceptably dressed in his floor-length bathrobe. 'Ho dato loro $ 5 dal tuo portafoglio.'

Laurie nodded, threading his hands through his curls benignly before suddenly frowning. 

'$5?' He repeated. 'Per che cosa?'

She shrugged, eyeing her reflection in the mirror. 'La loro discrezione.' She surmised, lightly.  'Non è che ti mancherà.'

Falling silent, he slowly reached for the buttons of his waistcoat, pulling a face of revulsion at the vomit which adorned it. Yanking it away from himself and pulling at the buttons of his shirt, he tossed them both into the bathtub, leaving himself in his trousers and undershirt. He lowered his gaze to his ring, twisting it, absently.

‘Lucille? He murmured.

'Cosa?'

She asked, reaching into the powder bag she kept in his bathroom for impromptu overnight stays, such as this.

Amy's statement rang viciously once again in his ears, a curdling sitting unpleasantly in his stomach.

'Fai tu rispettami?' He continued, keeping his eyes firmly pressed to his hands and his legs and the floor.

He felt, rather than watched her pause. Could sense the look of confusing playing over her delicate features.

'Dillo di nuovo.' She responded after a moment’s pause.

He swallowed, tightly, mortification rippling through him.

‘Respect me.’ He repeated, diverting from his mother tongue back to the far less intimate English. ‘Do you respect me?’

He raised his gaze back towards her, watching the way her brow twitched. As though he had suddenly fallen quite mad. For what did Theodore Laurence ever care about respect? 

‘What does respect have to do with anything?’ Lucille responded, her brow contorted.

_No. I do not._

Laurie nodded. Suddenly realising he wished for nothing more than to have a wash, brush his teeth and crawl into the fresh sheets and sleep what remained of the night away. Alone.

'Tout est prêt madame.'  Came the call through the door. 

'Merci.' Lucille replied, withdrawing the cardboard packet of contraceptive sheaths from her wash bag. 'Bon Nuit.'

Raising his gaze, Laurie eyed them.

_No. I do not._

He didn't want this.

With a pang, he wondered how the night could have otherwise progressed. 

A dinner with Amy as she talked a mile a minute, filling him in on all he had missed since he had last left Concord. She would have proudly introduced her to her friends. He would have accompanied her to the ball, not making a fool of himself for once. He would have berated her on how she was too good for him now, managing to wind her up like they were still in their teens. She would have laughed, danced into the new year with him, expressed how happy she had been to bump into him.

Instead, the night had transcended into... this and he wanted nothing more than for it to end. Wanted nothing more than to take back all of the terrible decisions he had made thus far. Wanted nothing more than to simply be alone.

He sniffed, rubbing the palms of his hands together absently.

‘Lucille... I am afraid I feel rather quite unwell.’ He murmured, stiffly. ‘I... I... I don't think I'm up for the company. Perhaps it's better if you leave... I’m very sorry, perhaps another time.’ 

Astonishment was the only word he could use to describe her expression. For Theodore Laurence was never the kind of man to say no. Not before tonight, anyway. Not to Lucille San Carlo. Especially not to himself.

She left not long after. Having redressed amidst a torrent of abuse hurled towards him in a mixture of Italian and English, collecting all the belongings she had within his rented rooms. In hindsight, it seemed, perhaps, not the done thing to have inferred she take money from his wallet for her troubles.

Yet as the door slammed shut behind her, he simply could not find it in himself to care. For he was alone; without Lucille, without his boorish entourage or a myriad of talloneurs, and for the first time he could remember since arriving in Europe, he glad of it.

Crawling within his sheets, Laurie rested his head achingly against the fresh linen pillows. It had been a long night and he was glad it was over.

He embraced his bare chest, stripped down to his undershorts, having tossed his entire outfit into the laundry shoot in the communal haul to be laundered. For the stench arising from them had proven nauseating.

Laurie too felt far cleaner. Having scrubbed at himself in the sink, rendering his skin now smelling comfortingly of soap. His mouth freshened from a good brush and a generous scoop of tooth powder.

It was a world away from how he usually fell asleep - fully dressed, collapsed on top of the covers, covered in some kind of unidentifiable liquid and lacking every conceivable ounce of dignity imaginable.

No, tonight was far different. Tonight it almost felt... like he had little respect for himself. As though this were how a gentleman should have fallen asleep, clean and before dawn.

He liked it.

For the fifth time, he checked the clock at his bedside, ensuring that the alarm was set to chime at 10AM.

He needed to get to the delicatessen before midday. A French one this time, not the Italian one.

For as much as Little Amy March had changed, he was positive that her love for all things sugar had not and he had resolved to purchase the largest box of chocolates he could find and have them couriered straight to her, accompanied with his most grovelling apology.

It was only as his eyes sank shut that Laurie realised what had been the catalyst for his ultimate demise; what had rendered him ill.

It had not been the Opium, or the Snuff, or the Chewing Tobacco or the Cigarettes or the Cigars or the Champagne or the Whiskey or the Gin or the Wine or any other manner of suppressants he had forced into his body, that night.

It had been the realisation of the callousness with which he had regarded his dear, dear friend. The image and the regard which he had attributed to her.

The derision with which he had regarded her lying down and stripping herself for the pleasure of his childhood schoolmate.

The mere thought of which rendered him quite unwell... for a reason that he simply could not, for the life of him, begin to fathom.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> I would love to know what you think!
> 
> * Title taken from an excerpt of Anna Karenina *


End file.
